


Only You

by Wenn



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Dark, M/M, Rape, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wenn/pseuds/Wenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can only love someone at a distance for so long before something in you has to break. I only did what I thought I had to. The knife was never supposed to be there, but there's no longer anything I can do about it." Rape. Psychologically dark. Alfred's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only You

**Author's Note:**

> [Pairing: USxUK]  
> [Rating: MA]  
> [Warnings: rape, the presence of a knife, blood]
> 
> A/N: I think this story is best read in a dark room at night - so you can get a better feel for the atmosphere. I'm . . . not quite comfortable assigning definite ages to Alfred and Arthur given the situation, but I guess you can infer from their surroundings that they're either in college or at a private school together. Please review and let me know whether or not this turned out okay!
> 
> Story on FF: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8055014/2/Only_You

* * *

Only You

* * *

_No, no, stop — Alfred! Listen to me!_

I don't listen. I breathe. See. Feel.

His protests are louder, but still not loud enough to be anything but echoes inside my head. _Alfred, stop it! Stop it!_

He's getting really angry now. His voice is shriller, sharper, needling. He's ferocious, a trapped tiger. I want to calm him, to tell him that everything is okay, that everything will be okay, but it obviously won't be okay if he keeps fighting me like a wounded animal.

Even I can see that, and I'm the one doing this.

Shadows flicker across the walls, shadows that wouldn't be there if night hadn't already fallen. Our dorm room is quiet except for him. He makes all of the noise, while I say nothing. My hands are doing the talking for me. They're silent, even as they move over his cheeks, down his neck.

The door is locked from the inside.

I don't think he likes my hands, with their broad knuckles and large fingers and calloused palms. When his hands were free — he has really pretty hands, slim and pale with trimmed fingernails, like a girl's — they kept trying to push mine away. I had to pin them down with my knees to make him stop. He's still writhing, though. Trying to pull them out so he can shove me some more. But don't worry, I'm not going to let him do that. I'm tired of being hurt by him. He already slapped me across the face when I tried to tell him how much I loved him.

_Alfred, stop —_

Why is he so talkative all of a sudden? He never talks in class. Sometimes he even ignores me when he's sitting at his desk, doing his homework, when all I want is someone to keep me company while I'm playing a scary video game. I get scared easily. That's not my fault, is it?

His knuckles make crackling noises as I push them down harder into the mattress. I feel his fingers bend in ways they're not supposed to, and I ease up a little, shifting my weight backward onto my heels before he can scream and wake up the whole dorm. I've never heard him scream before, but I feel like he would if I accidentally snap his fingers.

He's still talking, because I can see his mouth moving frantically in the moonlight coming in from the window, but I can't hear his words. I'm good at shutting out things I don't want to hear. That's what Matt, my brother, likes to tell me, but I don't listen to what he says a lot of the time, either. He likes spouting stuff that doesn't make sense, like how my obsession with Arthur is turning into a disease, and how you can't force someone to love you because then it isn't love. Things like that.

I don't get it. I mean, if I love Arthur, does it really matter that he doesn't love me? Everybody says that love is a beautiful thing. That means my love is a beautiful thing, not a disease (which means Matt's wrong; I don't feel sick, anyway. I'm pretty healthy). It's okay to have only one beautiful thing instead of two, right? Better one than none. Since Arthur doesn't really love me.

Or maybe he does. I'm not really sure. He always likes to say things that he doesn't mean, and he likes to hide his feelings away like a squirrel hiding nuts for winter. I wonder what winter he's waiting for. That's one of the things I want to ask him, but I don't think now is very good time to bring it up. I don't think he would listen to me any more than I listen to him. Anyway, my point is, I don't think he loves me. At least, not as much as I love him. It makes me sad sometimes when I think about it, but what can I do? Maybe if I show him how much I love him, he'll change his mind.

So that's what I'm doing right now.

_No, please, Alfred, please stop —_

His body is warm everywhere. Or maybe my hands are just cold? Or both? I don't really have a clue about what I'm doing — I've never slept with anyone — but I can figure it out as I go. It's no big deal. I think it's more of the feelings that matter, anyway, not the motions. Sex is a loving thing to do even if it's not perfect, right? And I'm trying to show Arthur that I love him. So it all fits.

I haven't been this close to him before. It feels nice. I have to hunch over kind of awkwardly, because I'm still straddling his waist, but I like feeling him under me. He feels so safe. So comforting. I've always liked that about him.

He bucks, his abdomen rippling violently, but my weight holds him down. He doesn't get anywhere. He's so scrawny and thin, but it's in a good way. I think I weigh a good thirty pounds more than he does, but on me, it's mostly muscle. He's all skin and bones (but like I said, it's not a bad thing).

I look at his face. His lips. They're so pale. Am I supposed to kiss him first? Or does that come later, when we're actually making love?

It's probably better to start by taking off our clothes. Then it'll be easier to get to everything else.

He's wearing a full set of cotton pajamas, buttoned all the way up to his chin. But since I'm more or less sitting on him, I can't exactly unbutton it and just slip it off. His hands are still trapped under my knees. I glance around the dark room, at the unintelligible shapes around the bed. Then I spot something glinting on the nightstand. I forgot I'd left it there when I was cleaning out my desk earlier. I reach over and pick it up, an idea forming in my head.

"Arthur, don't make any noise, okay?" I say. His eyes follow my hand, focus on the object between my fingers. They widen, so much that I can see a lot of the white around his irises. He stops thrashing when I flick the blade open on the pocketknife. He watches as I lower it, the razor-sharp tip coming to a stop poised before his face, and he goes deathly still.

My hand and wrist feel so strange. I've never pointed a weapon at someone before. It feels almost like it's someone else doing it.

"When I get off, can you take off your clothes, please?" I ask, remembering to be polite. I know he's a stickler for manners even when we're friends, so I think he'd be a stickler for manners when we're lovers, too.

He's suddenly completely docile. After I carefully move to the side (the bed is a single, like mine across the room, so there's not much space), he looks at me for a moment longer, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, his eyes still huge and quivering. Then, after a moment, his hands slowly rise to his chest and begin to shakily pluck the buttons of his top out of their holes, letting the cotton fall open.

His skin is clear, alabaster. Beautiful.

What Matt said can't be right. Love isn't a disease. I mean, I can understand why it's not really a good thing or a happy thing, but it's not some illness or anything. One of my close friends withdrew from school last year because he's in love with his older brother. It's kind of gross, but I feel bad for him. You're not really supposed to fall in love with your siblings, not like that, but it's not Kiku's fault. Just like it's not my fault that I get scared by things that sometimes aren't scary. I think it must be hard for him; I heard them say that he was going to go get "psychological help" after he left. But mostly, I'm just sad for him. He'll never be happy, because Yao doesn't even have a chance of loving him back, unlike the way it is with me and Arthur. Plus, he has doctors all over him now, asking questions and stuff. I don't think they would help him feel better.

Kiku is just a special case, I guess. I can't imagine loving Matt as anything more than a brother, and Arthur's not related to me at all, so I should be okay, I think. I won't need to get "psychological help."

He's moving to take the pajama top off now, but I suddenly change my mind and stop him. I think he looks nice like that, with his shirt undone and only his chest and navel showing. It makes something inside me grow hot. So I kind of point to his pants with my free hand, and he seems to get it, because he leaves the top alone and slowly — so slowly — hooks his fingers inside the waistband of his pajama bottoms. They slide down a little, pause, then keep sliding. He doesn't seem to be wearing anything underneath. All I can see are his hipbones, raised and smooth and angular, and the faintest trickle of hair starting several inches below his belly button. His eyes stay trained on the blade in my hand as he bends his legs, eases the bottoms down to his knees and his ankles and off entirely, the shadow cast by his thigh concealing his privates. I grab the pants from him — making him flinch — and toss them to the floor.

I've only seen him in his underwear before. Never nude. I don't want him to hide himself from me. Not tonight, not ever.

I want to see between his legs, so I take him by the knees and move them apart. He trembles in my grip.

His hair down here isn't as coarse as mine. It's almost silky, and I let go of his knee to stroke it, feeling the curls against my fingertips. I can feel the tautness of his pelvic muscles, and I pet those too, trying to make them not so rigid. He must be really nervous, because he doesn't respond to my touch except to shift his legs around on the sheets. He stays tense.

I start to move my hand lower on his groin. His penis is soft and floppy, and I'm curious because it doesn't look like mine — there's a sheath of skin around it, kind of like the wrapping on a popsicle, and it hides the tip from view. It's called a foreskin, I think. I had one when I was a baby, before the doctor removed it. I guess Arthur never got his taken away. I wonder what it feels like to have one. Does it grow when you grow? What about when you get an erection? What happens to it then? I really want to find out, so that means I'll have to make him hard to get my answer.

I've never done this to anyone but myself, and it feels weird, but I keep going. I start moving my hand in a sort of up and down motion, and it feels awkward because nothing happens and his penis stays soft and my fingers kind of slide around on his foreskin without doing anything. I quickly discover that I can roll it back, and the head finally peeks out. I rub my thumb across it, and I hear more than see Arthur bite his lower lip. His legs jerk, trying to fold together, but I nudge them to his sides again and he doesn't resist anymore when he eyes the knife. I adjust my grip on the handle, then go back to what I was doing. After about a minute more of useless fondling, I kind of give up and switch to rubbing his balls. They're squishy and pliable and round, but I don't press too hard, because I know that too much pressure hurts.

I get bored pretty fast. He just won't get hard, no matter how much I try to coax him to at least half-mast. Maybe it's time to focus on the main thing, the place where I'm supposed to enter his body when we have sex. His ass.

It's a tight, puckered little hole, partly hidden between his buttocks. I have to use both hands to part his cheeks, and he shies away with a tiny whimper when the blade of my knife comes too close to his skin.

Just to test the waters, I bring my index finger to the hole and push against it. My fingertip meets resistance. Really, really tight resistance. I can barely get in more than an inch. Below me, Arthur makes a strangled noise. But he doesn't start talking again. The ring of muscle flexes, constricting around my finger, trying to push it back out.

How in the world will my dick fit in there?

Well, I guess it's worth a shot. I can't think of another way to sleep with him.

I gently lay the knife on his belly, blade pointed north, and pull myself out of my sweatpants. I'm hard, and it feels good to have contact there even though it's my own hand. Then again, my own grip is all I've ever known. I wonder if Arthur is a virgin. I'm sure he is. He's not that much older than me, and he never dates anyone. People tend to steer clear of him.

I press the head of my cock to his hole. And push my hips forward.

His body convulses, and his eyes snap shut, his mouth stretching in a silent scream. His hands claw at the mattress. A high-pitched keening comes from his throat, and though it's not loud, it's the most painful thing I've ever heard. I look down, and see that I'm not even three inches in. Most of my shaft is still out in the open. He's squeezing me so hard it's beginning to hurt, and I suddenly have the wild idea that maybe his ass will trap me where I am and won't ever let go again.

But we're finally making love. And that's all that matters, isn't it?

I lean forward at an awkward angle and smush my mouth against his. I feel his jaw clench. His lips are cold, thin, unresponsive under mine. But I got my kiss, at least. So I pull back and thrust into him, breaking forward through the choking tightness of his passage.

He lets out a real sob this time, a half-mangled sound deep in his throat. His whole body is twitching. His limbs spasm. I secure my grasp on his thighs and build up a rhythm that rocks the two of us back and forth on the bed like boats on a wave. I ignore the strangely wet slosh of my dick entering and leaving him, and I ignore the metallic scent that fills the air. He continues to cry quietly; I stay oblivious. The knife slips along his skin, tracing red lines across his abdomen.

I come a little while later. A rush that feels like pure bliss, so _right_. After a few seconds of recovery, I tug myself back out. The sheets below us are a mess of cold sweat and blood and dribbles of semen (the first two from him, and the last one from me). But I don't care, because now we're lovers.

He's so still. His eyes are open, glazed, gleaming in the moonlight, the heaving of his chest dying down with each breath. He looks like he's managed to will himself into nonexistence. I watch him, quietly content.

Finally, he moves. His hand snakes up to his stomach. I'm not paying much attention, because the aftermath of an orgasm always leaves me feeling kind of giddy and peaceful, and I'm happy for the proof that I haven't killed him.

In a heartbeat, the knife is buried in the left side of my chest, between two ribs.

Our faces are a breath apart. I can kiss him again — we're that close together. But the distance between us stretches beyond eternity.

It hurts it hurts it hurts no it hurts make it stop make it stop Arthur it hurts it's hurting me you're hurting me Arthur stop it stop it it hurts— I want to scream at him, but my mouth doesn't work anymore, and neither does my voice. I don't know why. The knife is in my chest, not my throat. My vocal cords are still there, aren't they? So why can't I speak?

He's hovering there, half sitting and half crouching, pajama top hanging off his bony shoulders, his white hand curled around the handle of the knife. His eyes are wide. Wide and green. He looks like he doesn't know what he's doing, or what he's just done. I'm trying to figure out what his expression means, but I can't concentrate because it hurts so much. There are flashes of white and yellow and black inside my head. My lungs have stopped working, like my mouth and the rest of my body. I feel like I'm frozen. I can't breathe.

Blood is beginning to pool in my lap. I can feel it, thick and warm and heavy, seeping through my T-shirt and puddling on my thighs. I think I can taste it on my tongue, too. It's sour, like I've bitten a penny.

His lips are moving now. I can see them moving. Is he talking? But I can't hear him.

_Alfred. Oh my God. Alfred._

What is he saying? His mouth is definitely moving. Or is my vision starting to play tricks on me? I can't see straight. Everything sort of wobbles and twists and shimmers, like I'm stuck in one of those kaleidoscope things. One of those tubes with lots and lots of beads that form shapes that make sense but won't stop moving. My ears feel weird, too. As if I'm wearing a set of noise-canceling headphones. Buzzing pressure on my eardrums.

His hand falls away from the knife — it's just a handle now, isn't it? Since the blade is inside me, where you can't see it? — and he's frozen, too, but then he scrabbles at my sleeves, my arms. _Alfred, Alfred, I'm so sorry, oh, God, please talk to me, please, I —_

Then I can't see him anymore, because the room has gotten really dark all of a sudden. No more moonlight. Where are my eyes? I can't feel them. I can't feel anything, not even the knife or the blood in my lap or his fingers — his pale, pretty fingers — on my arms. I don't feel his warmth anymore. I don't understand. I start to panic. I'm so scared. Arthur, where are you? Why can't I feel you anymore?

Please come back, Arthur. I love you. Please come back. Don't leave me here, all alone, by myself.

Please, Arthur. I love you.

Please come back.

I —


End file.
